


Virtues and Vices

by QueenForADay



Series: The Wolf and the Shrike [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Bratty Jaskier | Dandelion, Come Marking, Dirty Talk, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Explicit Sexual Content, Foursome - M/M/M/M, M/M, Masturbation, Mob Boss Geralt, Multi, Mutual Masturbation, PWP without Porn, Punishment, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Sort of..., Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:02:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28583208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: Jaskier barges in on an important meeting held by Geralt and his household, intent on having Geralt's whole focus and attention be on him.He gets his wish (and more).
Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier/lambert
Series: The Wolf and the Shrike [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092515
Comments: 22
Kudos: 206





	Virtues and Vices

**Author's Note:**

> *You don't really need to read the first part of this series; but considering I lured you all here with the promise of depraved sexual antics with Geralt/Jaskier and possibly some guests, I can only assume you're all familiar with my previous works...
> 
> **Any and all complaints/compliments can be addressed to [crateofkate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crateofkate/pseuds/crateofkate) for being an instigator of madness but also a pal

“We conducted our searches in Ban Ard, Rinde, and Ellander,” Varin lists, seated at the table with the other more senior members of the pack. The man with a battle-hardened face and shadowed eyes has been his most valuable asset, especially with rooting out a potential rat problem. “Leo Bonhart was acting alone. People from other holdings may want you harmed or dead, Geralt, but it’s unlikely they hired someone like Bonhart to do it.”

Varin knows the way of things. If someone wanted Geralt dead, they would have done it themselves. Ancient codes and orders, and all of that. Vesemir’s voice whispers against his ears. Too many afternoons and evenings were spent with the elder, learning about the codes and conducts of the bosses of the city. Not that anyone kept to them anymore. But if someone were to kill a boss of a holding, it’s best to do it yourself, to really get your message across.

And Leo Bonhart didn’t seem like the kind of man to take orders from anyone. His words to Jaskier were just that: words. Geralt is glad to see him go, wherever Lambert buried his body.

It’s been a few weeks, and all that’s happened is nothing but a shadow to him now. Work within the boroughs doesn’t stop, and he didn’t want to let the veil slip that someone had taken him out of the game, albeit briefly. Geralt still strides around as if nothing happened. He can’t afford to look weak. The pack might look after one of their own if they’ve started slacking, but others aren’t that kind. The moment someone starts noticing that Geralt is favouring one shoulder, or that something brief and sharp flashes across his face whenever he tries to lift his right arm above his shoulder, it would bring a quick end to his reign over the city, and possibly his life. Eyes watch him for when he’s going to slip up, and he spent an eye-watering amount of time ensuring that he won’t ever show weakness.

He nods. “Thank you, Varin,” he says. “But keep your eyes sharp. We can never be too careful.”

Varin might be three times his age, and used to serving for and under Vesemir for so many of those years, but he’s one of the last of the old pack still around, and he doesn’t have any issue in lowering his eyes and nodding. His order has been dealt and he accepts it. Others have been less accommodating. And he isn’t going to go back to his elder, like some aggravated child asking for their parent to fight their battles for them.

The meeting has been dragging on, but with the update on Leo Bonhart dealt with, maybe there’s an end in sight. He catches Lambert in the corner of his eye doing his best to swallow down on a yawn. Lambert is more inclined with action rather than words. Geralt just tells him what to do and he does it, without having to know where the order came from or what was discussed to bring it to him.

Eskel weathers meetings a bit better. He oversees the movements of goods, and he rattles on about the newest shipments of drugs and arms that will be drifting in from the Skellige Isles. They’ll need to be moved as soon as they’ve landed. Geralt thins his lips. “Get Coën and Sorel to help you,” he murmurs. Eskel nods. If they can keep the normal routine of things, they won’t earn curious and wandering eyes.

The door creaks and it earns a few curious gazes. Every member of Geralt’s house has gathered in his study, listening to what the latest reports have to say. While he sits at the head of the table, flanked by Lambert and Eskel to his left and right, the rest of his pack know to stay further down the table, or line by the walls.

Jaskier slips inside, letting the door click shut behind him. Even as Varin continues on with his latest reports, Jaskier stalks through the room, weaving past those gathered by the door and walls, slipping behind the wolves gathered at the table. He has a firm path in mind, and it’s for the head of the table. Geralt just about manages to stop a sigh from leaving him.

Varin pauses, once he’s caught a glimpse of the lark. It’s not odd that Jaskier is in here. It’s not that he isn’t allowed to be in here. He’s the White Wolf’s bird, he can do what he likes. But he’s only attended four meetings in the past couple of months, and during those meetings, he’s more interested in teasing Geralt and kicking the side of Lambert’s chair, trying to get a rise out of anyone. His favourite game seems to be who he can get to snap first.

Geralt _does_ arch an eyebrow when Jaskier pauses behind Eskel’s chair. The wolf tilts his head back, not quite appreciating the lingering presence of the bird behind him. Jaskier offers him a small smile before clicking his fingers and jutting his thumb to the side.

Varin’s words trail off. He watches the lark for a moment, before his eyes suddenly dart to Geralt. Everyone’s eyes are on the lark and the wolf in front of him.

The sigh that escapes Geralt is long and suffering. He waves his hand. “Keep going,” he rumbles, ignoring the fact that Eskel huffs, standing from his chair to let Jaskier take it. Lambert snorts a short laugh, mostly lost into his hand, but it’s enough to clench Geralt’s jaw. One meeting. He would just like _one_ meeting to go well and uninterrupted by _someone_.

Jaskier isn’t quite done it seems. Catching the back of Eskel’s previously owned chair, he drags it – not quietly – over to Geralt’s side. No one sits at the head of the table bar Geralt. Even the side opposite him at the far end remains empty. But the shrike doesn’t seem to have any problem picking the spot beside his wolf as his newest perch.

Eskel’s mouth opens and closes for a moment. He wants to say something. It’s perched on the tip of his tongue. But Varin is still trying to navigate his way back to talking about something-or-other about new clients requesting meetings in neighbouring boroughs, and Geralt really couldn’t give a shit at this point.

He can feel it; his hackles starting to lift. Jaskier is a bother, and knows exactly how to etch and worm underneath his skin, just enough to be a niggling pain, doing all that he can to get Geralt’s attention back on him. And he’s doing a fucking good job, it seems.

Varin has half of Geralt’s attention. He still watches his little bird, fixing his chair securely and firmly beside Geralt’s, and flopping down into it with a loud huff. Varin’s eye almost twitches, but he soldiers on. Lambert’s face is near the same shade of red as his hair, trying desperately to keep his shoulders from shaking violently at all the laughter he’s trying to swallow back down.

Geralt silences it with a firm glare out of the corner of his eye.

Jaskier fidgets, because he can never quite sit still. Walking in here, mid-meeting, with the kind of smile Geralt knows will only lure them into trouble, he’s wondering what his little lark is up to. In all the months the shrike has burrowed a nest into Geralt’s home and life, he’s taken the time to learn everything he can about Jaskier’s tells. And there’s a certain look that glints the man’s eye whenever mischief is brewing inside of him.

Varin finishes his reports and relief settles into his face as he sits back against his chair, almost melting into it. Geralt looks around the table. They’re not done. Leo Bonhart and new contact requests aside, he’s been away from his holdings for a while during his short recovery. Jaskier seemed incredibly insistent on keeping Geralt bed-bound, claiming that he needed all the rest he could get. An oxymoron in itself, considering he was kept bedbound by his little lark perched on top of him every night.

Sorel and Osbert tell him about some worrying rumours drifting up from the south. Alliances being knitted together through families marrying into each other. If a big enough conglomerate can establish itself, then it’ll pose a problem for not only him, but most of the northern holdings. Neither of them says it, but the phrase _alliance with Cintra and Temeria_ sits on their tongues. Geralt’s brow knits together. Triss is still firmly perched in the latter holding. And she’s indebted to his house for putting her there in the first place. Calanthe...will be another problem entirely.

Jaskier bristles beside him, shuffling in his seat slightly and leaning on the arm closest to Geralt. With how close he’s drawn near, there’s only a small sliver of space between them. He can hear every breath Jaskier takes, every bitten off sigh that threatens to spill out of his lips from how bored he must be getting. Geralt’s eyes threaten to roll.

It’s then he catches it. A scent that drifts over to him and coats the roof of his mouth. His own cologne, frequently worn that he almost misses the scent entirely. But it’s laced with a distinct scent of Jaskier. He looks at the lark sitting just out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t even have to look at the little bird to know what kind of preening he’s doing.

His nostrils flare. It’s a scent he knows too well. Something that he breathes in and tastes on his lips and tongue when he’s buried inside of the other man, when he’s stretched and pliant and Geralt’s name spills out of his lips.

_Devious little thing_. Geralt catches a growl that threatens to rumble up his throat. He adjusts his seat slightly, already feeling a small wave of pleasure trying to stir his cock. His little lark owns his soul and body, and it should worry him how easily of a lure Jaskier has on him. Just by a smell, Geralt’s thoughts are already occupied by his songbird and nothing else.

And Jaskier knows.

The table that stretches out in front of him, laden with the most senior and revered members of his household, has enough of an overhang to obscure Jaskier’s hand beginning to wander. It starts innocently enough, brushing the outside of Geralt’s knee for a moment before settling on it. It _would_ be innocent, if Geralt’s skin didn’t bloom with heat the moment Jaskier has set a single touch on him. He’s entered the wolf’s den drenched in scent, with a plan to lure out the animal inside. And it’s a plan that seems to be working very well.

He keeps Jaskier in the corner of his eye. Turning to glower at him would draw too much attention. And who’s to say that Jaskier would even stop? Geralt knows for a fact that he wouldn’t.

Before he can loosen a small growl at the lark, the hand settled on his knee moves. Geralt’s jaw clenches shut, teeth almost grinding, as Jaskier’s hand trails up the length of his thigh. Warmth worms down into his bones and coils around his abdomen. His lark doesn’t let a day or night go by without touching him; but even then, it’s alarming how well Jaskier knows how to lure him back to pleasure with the simplest of touches.

Jaskier’s fingers curl slightly, combing into the swell of muscle in Geralt’s leg. Even when he tries to move it, to adjust his seat, Jaskier doesn’t budge. He continues on his course, and Geralt bites down on his tongue. He does all that he can to keep his breath measured and even, especially at the first brush of Jaskier’s hand over his clothed cock. It twitches within his jeans, and Jaskier huffs a whisper of a laugh under his breath.

_The fucking brat_ —

Eskel, chair-less, lingers nearby. Not quite at the head of the table, but not terribly far away either. Geralt knows that if the man’s eyes wandered, if he looked to Jaskier and saw one of his arms stretched towards Geralt, he would know exactly what was going on.

Lambert isn’t seated that far away too. Geralt’s throat bobs. His skin starts to heat, and he can only hope that he can school colour from flushing his face. Sorel, gods bless him, is discussing something about a port trade arrangement with Varin at the foot of the table; completely unaware of what’s happening at their end.

Jaskier’s hand settles on the swell of Geralt’s cock, feeling it twitch and try and stir within the confines of his jeans. Geralt’s teeth dig into his tongue. He could draw blood, flood his mouth with copper, but he draws in a steady breath. He keeps his hands where they are; settled on the arms of his chair. He sits like Vesemir would have; lording over those gathered in to defer to him.

But gods alive, he doesn’t know what his body wants him to do. His mind screams to grab Jaskier’s wrist and wrench his hand off of him. But his hips have a mind of their own, as does the rest of him. His skin blooms hot with every second Jaskier’s hand – a _single hand_ – lingers on him. His hips try and rock up against the touch, interesting in what the little bird is proposing, but Geralt knows he just needs to hang on.

Jaskier might not have any interest in what’s happening above the table, rolling his eyes and huffing an almost petulant sigh when someone else joins in on a conversation, adding to it and dragging the meeting out longer than it needs to be, but the hand underneath the table doesn’t stop moving. Geralt’s teeth grind. He’s going to have a few choice words with his bard when this is over. And being the bastard that he is, Jaskier will most definitely enjoy every bit of it.

Warmth blooms on the sides of his face. When someone else is speaking, thankfully, eyes aren’t kept on him. He doesn’t know if he could manage to keep himself together as well as he would need to. His house is a group of excellent observers.

Warmth comes from two pairs of golden eyes wandering his way. He’s bringing their attention on himself, squirming and shuffling in his seat. Maybe they can hear how tightly his jaw is clenching, almost enough to snap it and break some teeth. He ignores it. All he can do is stare down the length of the table, to whatever is being spoken about down there, and ignore the way Lambert’s shoulders quake with laughter.

Jaskier lets out a short, amused huff under his breath.

When the conversation humming around the table starts to lull, Geralt’s jaw flexes. “Anything else?” he asks, somewhat impressed with himself at how level he can keep his voice. His words come out around a slight growl, and he’s pretty sure that he’s glowering. Even if someone did have something else to say, one look at Geralt’s expression, and it’s promptly swallowed.

After a bout of silence lingers for a moment too long, Geralt grunts. “Get out.”

A simple order with immediate results. A chorus of chairs pushing back from the table, and members of his house rising to their feet and shuffling out of the room, thunder through the room. Those who brought reports gather them, bundling sheets of paper and folders into their arms before heading straight for the door. The younger pups linger, waiting for those more senior than them to leave first. As is the way of things.

When the crowds are starting to thin, with only a handful of pups and members of his house left, Geralt catches movement in the corner of his eye. “Right,” Jaskier huffs loudly, clapping his other hand on to his knee before attempting to rock up and out of his chair. “If that’s the end of that, I think I’m going to go for a walk. Thank you for the chair, Eskel, darling. Much appreciated.”

The hand that had brought all of this on starts slipping away. A growl rumbles up through Geralt’s throat.

A large hand darts out, catching Jaskier’s wrist and keeping his hand from wandering too far away. Jaskier doesn’t make it a few inches out of his seat. Words rumble out of the core of Geralt’s chest. He doesn’t even need to lean over to dust them across the shell of Jaskier’s ear. He knows he has his lark’s full attention. “Where do you think you’re going, little bird?”

Jaskier, never one to back down from a challenge, holds his gaze. A small ghost of a smirk dusts his lips. There’s a glint in his eye; something playful and devious. He lifts his chin. “I’m leaving,” he says effortlessly, nodding to the door. “Like everyone else.”

Geralt’s teeth threaten to bare. The hand around Jaskier’s wrist tightens. He can feel the man’s pulse starting to quicken against the pads of his fingers. Even in his eyes, the beautiful ocean blue starts to disappear behind wide, blown-out pupils. “You’re staying right here, with me,” he growls, reaching forward to catch his lark’s chin in between his thumb and finger.

Not that Jaskier would actually try and leave. If the quickened pulse, enlarged pupils, and soft puffed breaths slipping out from his lips are anything to go by, there’s nowhere else his little lark would rather be than here.

They aren’t alone. A few people still have to wander out, but they kept their gazes firmly locked on the floor. Geralt couldn’t care less. He hasn’t been shy with Jaskier in the past, and Jaskier has never been shy in the first place. The only reason he didn’t drop down into Geralt’s lap and curl around him during the meeting was probably because of a still lingering worry over the wolf’s chest and shoulder. Jaskier might not have cared about scrapes and bruises before, but Geralt doesn’t miss the way his eyes linger on the newest scar to add to the constellation already marring him.

In the night, when they’re entangled together in bed and sleep starts lulling them both down, Geralt drifts off to sleep feeling the man trail and dust his fingers over the ridge of his newest scar, barely breathing, as he tries to assure himself that Geralt is still here.

His little lark has become so worried about him; hovering over his shoulder and perching on it whenever he can, not content to let him out of his sight for more than a moment. And if Geralt’s attention starts to wane and wander away, Jaskier will do everything in his power to try and lure it back.

It’s just that _sometimes_ his methods aren’t the most subtle.

Geralt’s cock aches within his jeans, pushing against the front and trying to gain some bit of friction. The glint in Jaskier’s eyes certainly doesn’t help it ebb away, nor is the way the man leans forward, eyes lowering to Geralt’s lips. The words that lull out of him, quiet and shrouded within gentle murmur, are just for him. “Will I have your full attention if I stay?” he lilts, letting his eyes travel down Geralt’s neck and chest, all the way down to the bulge within his jeans. The corners of Jaskier’s lips twitch into a smile.

“You came in here, brazen as anything, trying to get my attention,” Geralt rumbles. His hold on Jaskier’s wrist tightens just enough for the man’s pupils to twitch and expand ever so slightly. “Well, you have it now. But are you sure you’re just after mine, little lark? The way you made so much noise, I suspected that you might have wanted other people’s eyes on you too.”

Something, ever so slightly, hitches Jaskier’s breath. They haven’t been shy in the past, and quick, rough fucks where they can get them have lured someone’s attention in one way or the other. Coën refuses to drive them anywhere when they’re together, knowing how fond Jaskier’s hands are for wandering. Eskel and Lambert live in this house with them, and they’ve surely heard Jaskier, or him, at some point. Jaskier isn’t exactly quiet when he wants to be, uncaring of how far his moans and whines of Geralt’s name reach down hallways and into other rooms.

Two of Geralt’s fingers rest on his pulse. It quickens beneath the pads of his fingers. If Jaskier wasn’t interested, he would say so. If he didn’t want what Geralt offered, he refused it. But now, with a pulse starting to hammer against his fingers and the way his pupils are slowly overtaking the beautiful ocean coloured eyes he loves so much, Geralt’s lips twitch into a ghost of a smile.

Without turning away from his little bird, Geralt speaks. “Eskel, Lambert,” he says curtly, “stay behind.”

He watches the words settle with his lovely lark before he turns and looks for his brothers. Two pairs of golden eyes blink back at him. Both Eskel and Lambert are frozen to where they are within the room, feet firmly rooted to the ground. Even as the last lingering sounds of the rest of his house ebb away, knowing that they’re all filing out of his home to start on their new tasks, he still nods to Eskel, lingering by the door. “Lock it,” he grunts, pushing back from the table and standing up. With the hold he has on Jaskier’s wrist, the man comes with him.

He doesn’t watch for Eskel to do what he’s told. He’ll do it. A simple click of the door shutting and being locked rings out through the room, and silence laps over the four of them left inside. Lambert’s eyes narrow, the younger wolf not entirely sure about the scene both he and Eskel have been lured into, but he doesn’t go to move away. Obviously curious.

Geralt desk, once Vesemir’s, sits where it’s always been; away from the main meeting table, and just for whatever wolf is lording over the house. It’s made of a darker, heavier wood, with the varnish-work having been dimmed and redone over the years. Geralt remembers not even being able to look over it, once, when he was a young pup who clung to Vesemir’s side. It always seemed like such a heavy, imposing thing. And now he sits behind it, with Vesemir somewhere else entirely.

He draws Jaskier near, tugging his lark close to him. Jaskier goes with the movement, and it never escapes Geralt that his little bird could wring free and fly away whenever he wants. The grip on the bird’s wrist might be firm, but if Jaskier pulled, Geralt would let him go. Though, by how dark his eyes have become and the way his plush, bitten lips part in a small gasp at being brought flush to Geralt’s chest, he reckons the thought of flying away is a slim one.

Geralt reaches up, dusting the backs of his fingers along the soft skin of Jaskier’s cheek. “Have I been forgetful of you, darling?” he rumbles, watching Jaskier fight down a shiver threatening to shake through him. “Have you been so lost without me by your side every waking moment, that you have to take measures into your own hands, hmm? I’m trying to work; you know that, don’t you?”

Words perch on the tip of Jaskier’s tongue, but they’re swallowed. Instead, a thin breath slips out of him instead. Geralt clicks his tongue. “But if you insist on being a brat, bothering me when I’m trying to work, and keep us all safe, then what else am I supposed to do with you?”

If Jaskier wants his attention, he has it wholly. He has three pairs of golden eyes on him as Geralt brings him forward, luring him closer to the edge of the heavy, wooden desk. With a firm hand on the centre of his back pushing him down, Jaskier just about manages to bite down on a grunt of pain as his chest takes the brunt of the hit. The desk is unyielding and barely even shifts under his weight.

A long, somewhat steady breath blows out of Lambert. Neither of his brothers speaks. They’re both deathly and deafeningly silent. Observing and waiting. As they’ve always been taught to do. _Like good pups_. Vesemir’s words brush the shell of Geralt’s ear and he just about manages to clamp down on a shiver.

But Lambert has always been Lambert, and a snide comment always manages to slip through one way or another. It rolls through a soft chuckle. “Has the little birdie been giving you some trouble?”

Eskel looks to him, eyes narrowing slightly. Lambert has always been the more brazen of them, knowing the way of things, and ignoring it regardless.

Geralt wins Eskel’s attention back when a short burst of pain ripples through his shoulder. He might shroud himself in the appearance of him looking fine and healthy, but his shoulder still stiffens and gives him trouble. Something must show on his face, or his breathing stutters, because suddenly, the blonde-haired man is taking a hesitant step towards the desk.

Geralt measures his breath, waiting for the sting of pain to ebb away. With his good arm, he reaches out, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, brushing it back from the man’s face. Blue, hooded eyes blink up at him, quietly waiting on whatever order falls out of Geralt’s lips. Not that he would ever follow them. Geralt’s mouth quirks into a smirk. He’s waiting for what he’ll say to the other wolves prowling nearby.

Jaskier won’t move. He’s already sinking into the desk, letting the edge of it press uncomfortably into the swells of his thighs. Still—

Geralt sets nimble fingers to the cuffs of his shirt, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows. Without even looking at either of his brothers, Geralt’s order is curt and simple. “Make sure he doesn’t move.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly, just a bit, before something dangerously like a whine slips out of his throat. And the sound has Geralt’s core twisting. It’s a sound he’s lured out of his lark as often as he can, because his little bird sings the most beautiful of songs. Jaskier just about manages to shuffle himself into a somewhat comfortable position, before two sets of strong, scarred hands catch his shoulders.

A moan is lost against the grain of the desk. Geralt’s eyes travel over the bird lain out for him. The first touch he places is along Jaskier’s back, where his tee has lifted up slightly, revealing a sliver of pale skin. Geralt’s thumb dusts along it, trying not to smirk at the way his lark trembles underneath him.

Even over the fabric of Jaskier’s tee, warmth from the hands on him scalds his skin, worming heat deep into his muscles and bones. Geralt can feel him shifting ever so slightly, and the first catch of Jaskier’s hips against the front of him has his cock aching. A low growl rumbles up Geralt’s throat. Without a word falling from his lips, the two pairs of hands on his lark firm and tighten, holding Jaskier firmly on the desk. A low moan rings out from the man’s throat.

There isn’t much about his lark that surprises him anymore, especially how eager he can be for Geralt, and how assured in of himself he is of getting his way. Geralt’s hands spend as much time as they can drifting over any exposed sliver of skin he can find, but his fingers eventually catch the waistband of Jaskier’s sweatpants. They’re loose enough to be tugged down, alongside his underwear, and brought half-way down his thighs. Jaskier won’t need his legs. He won’t be moving anywhere anytime soon. If it’s Geralt’s attention he wants, he certainly has it now.

Nothing surprises him about his lark, but Geralt’s eyebrow does arch slightly at the sight in front of him. Nestled between the cheeks of his ass, Geralt dusts his fingertips along the rubber head of a plug. Jaskier, already stretched and wet, strolled into Geralt’s office and, regardless of a meeting being held or not, was going to find some way of getting the man to fuck him.

And here they are.

Geralt’s laugh is nothing more than a rumble. “Insatiable little thing, aren’t you?” he hums, tilting his head. Setting his hands on to the globes of Jaskier’s ass, he parts them slightly, watching how his hole clenches around the plug buried inside of him. Images blink in front of him; Jaskier sprawled out on their bed, fingers buried inside of himself as Geralt entertained their house below, chatting about dreadfully mundane things while Jaskier stretched himself open and wet for his lover. Geralt’s cock aches.

The tell-tale sound of his belt clinking open, alongside the thrum of his zip, sends a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. His breathing thins into whines as he tries his best to rock his hips back or forward. Geralt can only imagine how hard his little lark has become; two strong pairs of hands holding him firm, three pairs of golden eyes taking in the expanse of him.

Geralt’s lip twitches into a smile. Eskel and Lambert might be hanging on to any words he says, waiting for their orders of what to do, but he does notice their eyes wandering. He doesn’t blame them at all. He’s seen the looks they share in the morning, just as Geralt or Jaskier or both of them pad downstairs for breakfast. Every bite mark and bruise left on his lark has been seen by everyone in this house, just because of where Geralt leaves them. But Lambert and Eskel’s gaze tends to linger longer than most.

They’ve shared before. Late nights in clubs that have tumbled into early mornings, women and men perched on laps and drifting from one of them to the next. None of them are particularly shy. Geralt reaches inside of his jeans, palming himself for a moment. He’s hard and beads of precum are gathered on to his palm, slickening the way. His other fingers toy with the end of the plug nestled inside of Jaskier’s, thumbing the hole stretched around it.

Jaskier shudders and the plug shifts and plunges slightly deeper.

Lambert’s eyes drift down, lingering on the pert globes of Jaskier’s ass. “Ever thought of taking him over your knee?” he rumbles, lips curled into a smirk and words toying. Jaskier’s breath hitches as he moans again; some whined attempt at Geralt’s name and to _get on with it_. Lambert lifts his chin. “Best cure for an unruly brat.”

Eskel doesn’t say anything, but something glints in the gold of his eyes.

Geralt pulls himself out, stroking himself for a moment while Jaskier clenches around the plug. It’s just big enough for Geralt to slide in, but there will be a slight stretch. His lark is fond of feeling Geralt, making sure he keeps himself just tight enough to feel himself parting around Geralt’s cock when he fucks into him.

The thought has crossed his mind. Jaskier has a talent for pushing every button Geralt has, and even the ones he didn’t know of. He wears a certain sort of glint in his eye and a curved smirk that is just asking to wiped off of his face. Geralt shakes his head. He would never strike his bird, not in any sort of way. But that’s not to say Jaskier doesn’t earn his punishments. And Geralt knows exactly how to deal them.

He takes his time with working the plug out of Jaskier’s hole. The greedy little thing clamps on to it, trembling and moaning every time Geralt works it in and out of him. It’s not long enough to reach that spot inside of him, but maybe just enough to brush it, to tease and to have his breath hitching. _Poor little thing_. No wonder he spent so much of their meeting squirming.

He pulls on it just enough, the bottom of it almost popping out of him, before Geralt pushes it back in.

Jaskier gathers his breath. “You fucking asshole,” he groans, trying again to rock his hips back against him, against _something_. “I’m going to kill you in your sleep—”

Lambert arches an eyebrow. “Mouthy little thing,” he says, tightening his hold on Jaskier’s shoulder. Not quite enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. He’s staying exactly where he is, and Geralt is in charge of what happens.

And Jaskier gets the point. He learned it within his first few days within Geralt’s employ. Geralt commands respect and reverence from everyone, including the little lark. It’s just sometimes – _often_ – he likes to see how far he can push it. Jaskier has a particular talent at also not being able to leave anything alone. Even pinned down, at the mercy of Geralt and two other wolves, Jaskier still is armed with a weapon. “I’ve seen you staring at my mouth, you prick,” he growls, trying his best to arch his neck and head around to look Lambert in the eye. “If you have such a problem with me being _mouthy_ , why don’t you ask Geralt if you could try and fix it?”

Geralt watches Lambert’s knuckles turn white. They’ve mostly the soft cotton of Jaskier’s shirt gathered in his palm and wrapped through his fingers, but his knuckles dig into the swell of Jaskier’s shoulder.

His poor little bird has been on the edge for long enough. He’d like to keep him there; perch him on a nearby chair and make him wait. But Geralt’s cock twitches in his hand, thoughts of being buried deep inside of the body stretched out in front of him threatening to drown him.

Jaskier moans at the pull of the plug leaving him. His hips roll back with it, trying to keep something within him, but he whines sharply when it’s gone. Geralt sets it aside, lost somewhere to his desk. It’ll come back soon, when he’s finished with Jaskier and left him full and flooded. He’ll work the plug back into the man and send him on his way, watching him try and keep his walk as normal as he can.

Geralt sets the head of his cock to Jaskier’s hole. It’s soaking wet with lube, twitching as Geralt drags his cock around it for a moment. Jaskier’s moans turn into short growls, another threat bubbling up his throat. He catches the man’s waist with his other hand, fingers digging into the skin and leaving faint marks behind. A firm roll of Geralt’s hips has the head of his cock pushed into Jaskier, and there’s a stretch. Jaskier moans and lets his body slacken into the desk. His legs part, ever so slightly, trying to lure Geralt further in. The hand on his hip tightens. They’ll go at his pace, and Geralt wants to take his time.

Heat blooms through him at the onslaught of senses. But eyes are lingering on him too. He glances up, through the tendrils of light-coloured hair falling down on to his face. Lambert and Eskel watch, their hold on the man unyielding, but their curiosity peaked. They might as well watch, given how close to the bard they are.

A firm roll of Geralt’s hips drives the rest of his cock in. Jaskier tenses and he trembles around Geralt. The wet heat surrounding him is too much. Geralt groans, something deep that rumbles out of the depths of his chest. “Always so good for me,” he lulls, letting a hand drift over Jaskier’s ass. He clenches so beautifully around him, trying to pull him in further. Geralt’s hips lay flush against Jaskier’s. There’s nowhere else for him to go, and a small shift of his hips has his cock brushing Jaskier’s prostate. His lark has such a lovely voice. A moan that spills out of him is mostly lost into the desk below him.

He stills for a moment, feeling the wet and tight heat around him. It’s intoxicating, and Geralt almost loses himself in it. Jaskier whines, trying his best to rock his hips back. The holds on his shoulders tighten, keeping him firmly rooted to the desk.

If he wanted to break free, he could. If he looked over his shoulder and sent Geralt a certain kind of look, he’d let his bird flutter away. But the only thing he can see in the ocean eyes is pleasure blowing them out. Jaskier doesn’t want to be anywhere else.

The first rock of his hips almost steals his breath. Jaskier might not be able to move, but he’s armed with a few weapons of his own. He tightens around Geralt, trying to keep him inside of him. “Settle down, little bird,” Geralt rumbles, setting a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, driving his cock in and out at his own rate. Jaskier gasps wetly against the desk. Even a disobedient, vapid brat, Geralt’s praise for him lulls out of his throat. “You’re taking me so well, tight as you are. How many fingers did you ply yourself open with, hmm? Two?”

Jaskier moans and nods.

Geralt clicks his tongue. He’s bigger than two fingers. Much bigger. But Jaskier revels in the sharp sting that shoots through the small of his back when Geralt’s cock pushes into him, making him part for him. Jaskier was made to take his cock, forming around it and parting as prettily as he does. But he’s wet as any cunt Geralt has ever fucked.

He should keep Jaskier here just for this. Kept to his bed, stretched open and plugged and ready for Geralt’s cock. He would make a beautiful addition to the silk and cotton sheets and an absurd amount of pillows Jaskier insists they keep softening the bed. Geralt can see him now, lounging and curled within his nest, legs ready to spread open whenever Geralt comes home.

Jaskier makes such lovely sounds. His groans and gasps fill the air, thickening and almost suffocating.

“Look at you,” Geralt grunts, setting his hand beside the back of Jaskier’s head and curling his other fingers through the man’s hair, getting a good look at his face. “Desperate little thing, aren’t you? Coming down here stretched for my cock, not even bothering to wait until we were alone to try and get it into you. Am I not enough, darling? Do you think I should just let Eskel and Lambert keep you here while my whole house has a turn with you?”

Jaskier tightens around him. A moan tumbles out through his lips, entirely lost into the desk’s surface.

Geralt’s fingers curl into Jaskier’s hair, knuckles turning white as he keeps Jaskier’s head exactly where it is. Eskel and Lambert are close enough that he can feel their body heat. He doesn’t even have to look at their faces to know a flush has already started to colour their skin. Geralt’s eyes wander, noticing the slight bulge in Eskel’s jeans. “Of course,” he lulls, leaning down to make his words brush over the shell of Jaskier’s ear, “once I’m done with you, you should see to Eskel and Lambert too. They’ve been so good, don’t you think? Actually following my orders, and not being such a desperate brat.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes are wholly black, pupils blown out as fucked-out, short noises tumble out of him. His hole and walls flutter around Geralt’s cock.

Geralt smirks. “Would you be a good boy for them?” he lulls, already knowing the answer. Jaskier is _his_ , and he’s laid his claim to the lark over and over again. But if Jaskier’s eyes wandered – and they have – and he proposed another to join them, Geralt wouldn’t refuse. And he’s already noticed the other wolves watching every move the lark makes. They’ve shared in the past, so why not now. “I have your ass, darling, and it’s wonderful and _mine_. But your mouth is free. Would you show them how talented you are with that mouth?”

Jaskier’s moan lilts alongside those of his brothers. Geralt doesn’t even have to glance up to know that colour is blooming on their faces and their eyes are hooding at the images drawn up in front of them.

But—

“Not today, I think,” Geralt rumbles, rolling his hips against the swell of Jaskier’s ass. The slow, long drag of his cock has Jaskier moans shaking. Jaskier is close. His skin is flushed and sweat stings the air. Geralt watches his eyes – bleary and blinking, almost rolling back with every brush of the head of Geralt’s cock against his prostate. Geralt reaches down, brushing his knuckle against the bitten-soft lips parting for him. Geralt smiles. “Maybe someday, if you’ve been good. I wouldn’t have to keep you on such a short leash if you behaved yourself for once. But that’s no excuse to let our guests go without some sort of reward for all their hard work. What do you think, little lark?”

Something fresh glints Jaskier’s eyes. His brain is scrambling trying to follow what Geralt is saying, what he could mean. But there are two wolves near his head, and every breath he manages to pull in is tinted with the musk, heady scent of their arousal. And his mouth is watering.

Geralt catches his chin in between his thumb and finger. “Do they deserve a reward?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier breathes, trying his best to crane up and look at either man. “Yeah, _fuck Geralt_ , please, just fuck me.”

_Bless the little thing_ , Geralt has to chuckle. A desperate little thing who’s barely hanging on. Geralt glances to Eskel, the closest, and the one keeping most of his attention. His words are as curt as he can keep them, now finally looking on the dark, almost black, eyes staring back at him, hanging on to his every word. Geralt nods to the buttons of his jeans.

Even without words, Eskel obeys. One hand leaves Jaskier’s shoulder, fingers fumbling with his belt and fly.

“You can touch yourself. Make yourself come.” Geralt turns, catching Lambert’s eye. “But on his face. He doesn’t get to uses his mouth today.”

A reward for Eskel and Lambert and a punishment for Jaskier. Or maybe a punishment for Lambert too. He somewhat mourns the loss of the chance of Jaskier’s mouth around him. Maybe if Jaskier can behave himself, he’ll earn it. But for now, Geralt catches his lark in his own hands, ignoring the slight protesting groan of pain his shoulder, to let his brothers free their hands from him and free themselves.

It’s frantic. More frantic than he’s ever seen them be. There were nights that passed in a flurry of bodies and noise. An endless flow of sex that he couldn’t remember when it began and he saw no end in sight for it. But this is different.

Eskel frees himself first, fisting his cock firmly and harshly as he sets a quick rhythm. Within seconds, moans tumble out of his lips – harsh and deep. He’s been hard for a while, throbbing within the confines of his own pants. And now with a hand on him, and a pretty little bird to look at, Geralt is watching a man tumbling towards the edge of release.

Lambert’s groan is caught behind clenched teeth. He’s never been quiet a day in his life. Loud and brash and everything Vesemir hoped Geralt wouldn’t turn out to be. But he listens to every noise lured out of Geralt’s songbird’s throat and commits it to memory. Geralt’s thrusts quicken.

He’s sure that his brothers have heard them. He’s sure everyone has seen the marks left behind. What he has to wonder about is how many times either of his seconds in command spent rubbing their cocks to those noises and marks.

Eskel has always been better at following orders. Geralt chalks it up to them growing up alongside each other – Eskel learned from Vesemir too, though the elder kept his shyer pup tucked firmly beside him because he saw something in him that no one else had. And Vesemir was keen to fan it into a flame, and then a wildfire. Lambert, on the other hand, came in with the changing wind. He was a young pup who tumbled into the wolf’s den after mixing in with the wrong crowd. He didn’t receive any training from Vesemir, none of the mentorship that the others did. But he grew with the other boys and learned what he could from watching.

He just never got the lessons in how to follow a simple order. Geralt keeps his eyes on him. Lambert will have met his match in Jaskier, and trying to keep both of them behaved might just add to the grey hairs on Geralt’s head. Geralt’s thrusts quicken and the sound of skin wetly slapping rings out through the room.

“Finally sharing your toys, are you, Boss?” Lambert snips. His fist tightens around his cock, red and ruddy and leaking already.

Geralt grunts as Jaskier tightens around him again, desperate to make him come and flood his insides. The edge is nearing. Geralt can feel it. He can only just hope to get Jaskier there before him. “I would have shared sooner if you had asked,” he rumbles, catching Lambert in the corner of his eye. He takes in nothing but Jaskier. His shirt sliding further up his back, the slight bounce of his ass as he takes Geralt’s cock. It’s intoxicating.

“You were _really_ fucking insistent on keeping him all to yourself,” Lambert growls lowly, fist moving slightly quicker, breath beginning to thin and hitch. “How were we to know you would be okay with sharing?”

Eskel’s moan is tight and rumbling. His eyes flutter shut, brows knitting. He’s close. His hips start to thrust into the tight grip of his hand. Geralt keeps his words as measured as he can. “You can have him,” he lulls, luring both of the men with his words. “There will be rules, but if he’s as desperate for a cock inside of him as he seems, then who am I to deny him? He has a wonderful mouth. Will take you as deep as he can before choking.”

Eskel grunts, a bead of precum spilling out on to his fingers. Lambert’s groan is almost lost in the rush of blood running through Geralt’s ears. Jaskier whines, brows knitted together and mouth open. Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, knotting it in a grip and hauling the man up and back on to his cock. Jaskier manages to scramble an arm underneath him, holding himself up slightly. His eyes roll at every new push of Geralt’s cock in him, battering his prostate with every rock.

“Come on him,” Geralt orders, “come on his face and leave your marks.”

Two pairs of golden eyes look down at what’s stretched out and presented in front of them. An open mouth with the most depraved, fucked-out noises slipping through plump lips, a pale neck stretched and inviting for teeth—

Eskel comes first, a groan shuddering out of him as ropes of cum spill across Jaskier’s face. What gets to his mouth and lips is laved up by his tongue, Jaskier’s eyes rolling as he tastes what he can. Eskel’s breath leaves him completely, and it’s a struggle to catch the next one. _Desperate little thing_.

His hand slips from his cock, bobbing heavily just in front of Jaskier’s face. His stained fingers card through Jaskier’s hair, earning a tight whine from the man. Such a pretty voice. Eskel wants to hear more of it.

Geralt meets Eskel’s eyes, nodding curtly. Eskel turns Jaskier’s head, just enough, that when Lambert tumbles over the edge, his release joins Eskel’s in staining Jaskier’s face.

Pretty and tight whines slip out of the songbird’s throat. Geralt catches Jaskier’s hips, stilling them as he fucks in quickly. The desk, heavy as is it, groans underneath them.

Jaskier moans, turning his head. Just catching the light, Geralt sees the mess staining his face. And his breath catches in his throat.

“ _Please_ , baby,” Jaskier whines, licking his lips as a bead of cum pools on his cupid’s bow. “Wanna feel you come. Mark me, fill me up. I’m all yours.”

The right kinds of words that will lure Geralt to the edge. And the sight of his pretty little lark soiled in cum is too much.

When he comes, he drives in as far as he can, and spills himself deeply. Geralt bites his lip, smothering his moan and any sort of noise that would crawl out of his throat. Jaskier trembles around him, trying to milk more out. The hands on his waist tighten until the beginnings of bruises start to bloom.

Jaskier rocks back as much as he can, but Geralt’s hold on him is firm enough to keep him exactly where he is. A whine slips out of his throat.

Geralt reaches underneath the man, feeling how hard and wet his cock is, untouched and red. Geralt hums, leaning up to press a quick kiss to an unmarred portion of skin by Jaskier’s chin. “I’m going to plug you up, and keep what I’ve spilt right inside of you,” he rumbles, just quiet enough for them to hear. Eskel and Lambert drift away, stumbling further into the room to try and right themselves.

The hand around Jaskier’s cock tightens, earning a broken whine from the lark. “You’re not to come unless I say so. That might be tonight, tomorrow morning, I haven’t decided. But you wait for _my_ order. Understood?”

There’s still a challenge in those eyes. Something that glints inside the ocean blues Geralt loves so much, and he revels in it. Wet, fucked out breaths puff out between bitten lips. All of it, every stretch of his lark, looks even more beautiful than before. Geralt’s cock twitches again, already interested in laying more claims to the lark and following up on everything he’s promised.

Jaskier lifts his chin. A silent request, but one that has Geralt leaning in and meeting. A long languid kiss, wet with lithe streaks of cum that haven’t quite been cleaned up by Jaskier’s tongue. The mingling taste sits in Geralt’s mouth, and he savours it.

**Author's Note:**

> If ya'll really have been following my work, then you would already be aware that I cannot end a fic to save my life. So there you go lol
> 
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> twitter:  
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> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated!


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